Page 22 of The Ember and the Emerald

I tried to sit up, but a throbbing pain cut through my temples, keeping me down. A groan spilled from my lips. The muscles in my shoulders were stretched to the max. And my arms. I couldn’t move my arms. Why?

I squirmed and pulled without results. Where was I? Where was Jasher? Where had we landed?

Rapid blinking cleared my vision. The world around me formed, and a frown pulled at my mouth. I sprawled across a thin layer of hay, inside a rickety, uncovered wagon with cartons of spoiled vegetables and one wooden crate with the scraggliest chicken in existence.

She watched me. Not with fear or curiosity but with what might be pure, unadulterated judgment. Her eyes shouted, Unworthy! Her feathers jutted at odd angles, and one eye drooped lower than the other. Her comb flopped sideways, resembling a wilted crown, and her beak bore a small notch. A souvenir from a fight.

She tilted her head, more unimpressed by the second, then emitted a low, offended bawk—less barnyard noise, more commentary. What are you looking at, hooman?

Teeth chattering, heart hammering, I jerked upright. Or tried to. Rope pulled, keeping my arms trapped behind me. I was bound?

Instant fury. I fought for freedom, a ragged blanket dropping to my waist, allowing frigid wind to pummel me. “Jasher?” I called. He wasn’t in the wagon with me. Through weathered slats, I spied the charred remains of a forest. Panic sprouted. “Jasher!”

The chicken shifted, feathers rustling, and let out a sharp cluck that sounded suspiciously like, Really?

“Shh shh. Please be quiet, Oracle.” The low, accented command came from the front of the vehicle, spoken by an unfamiliar male voice. “We’ll reach the shimmer soon, and you can be as loud as you wish. But right now, monstra lurk nearby. Sound draws them.”

The almost-English accent. I was absolutely back in Hakeldama. But what was the date? And why did he think I was an oracle? Wasn’t like I’d introduced myself.

Dread and resolve battled as I craned my neck. Two gaunt men perched upon a bench seat, one holding reins. Both wore fur coats with swords strapped to their backs. The pair didn’t look—or smell—like trappers. Filthy, rot-infested cannibals who bred rabdogs. Or “death on four legs,” as Jasher once described them.

And yet, I couldn’t shake the thought: trackers.

Wincing, I zoomed my gaze to the chicken. She puffed out her chest as if she were the one in charge. I admired her total lack of fear.

I could almost hear Jasher’s voice in my head. Don’t you dare name it.

I’d call her Cluck Cluck.

“I’m probably the one on the chopping block, not you,” I whispered. Before, I’d tangled with an entire village of trappers, barely escaping with my limbs.

For a moment, the past superseded the present. I saw former prisoners chained. Wounded men, women, and children missing body parts and any hint of hope. Saw the death of a wonderful old man who helped facilitate my escape with a newborn rabdog. A pup I’d had the privilege of raising into a ferocious beast. Nugget had been my baby in every way that mattered. He’d saved my life a time or two. I missed him greatly.

My ribs squeezed. “What do you see outside?” I quietly asked Cluck Cluck. Her crate perched atop a vegetable carton, giving her a better view.

She turned her head away, dismissing me.

Fine. I worked myself into a kneeling position. Oh! My backpack lay near the wagon’s edge. Out of my reach. No matter. I’d find a way to retrieve it once I gained my bearings.

The world outside inspired another groan from me. Not just a forest, but Lawless Forest, where any crime could be committed at any time without repercussion. Trees abounded, each streaked with soot, their gnarled branches devoid of leaves. A second wagon trailed mine, two fur-clad men driving it as well. Was Jasher inside it?

“Who are you?” I whisper-demanded to the drivers. Wait. During my previous visit, monstra had roamed nowhere outside of a rainstorm. Had these men lied to keep me docile? “Where’s my friend?” I asked with a little more volume. “Where are you taking me?”

Both men went rigid. The guy who’d spoken earlier withdrew a sword, darting his gaze, as if he truly expected a threat to appear. The other guy urged the horses into a faster trot. Okay, so, maybe they hadn’t lied.

As quietly as possible, I fought harder against my bindings. Contorting. Shifting. Trying to saw the rope against a nail. Nothing helped.

Last time I was here, my mother’s ring had appeared on my finger, warming and strengthening me, even sometimes causing that beautiful golden armor to cover me. Wiggling at my finger, I waited, hoping, praying. Alas.

We sailed through a wall of shimmering, jelly-like air, leaving the burnt remains of Lawless Forest behind, entering a thriving village circled by lush trees. In a blink, the air felt warmer. Safer. A cornucopia of conversations erupted.

The wagons stopped, and I scanned. Okay, so, not exactly thriving as I’d assumed. Huts and tents in need of repair clustered on one side. In the center, a boar-like creature roasted over a fire pit. A beastie. On the other side, half-starved men, women, and children watched the animal spin, unabashedly drooling.

Many women and children rushed over, reaching for the chicken and vegetables. Poor Cluck Cluck. She was indeed on the menu.

As soon as I was noticed, gasps and whispers of “water maiden” rang out.

“Where’s Gerald?” one of the drivers asked the crowd.